There are tales
to be told
of other continents;
she declines.
There were warnings
that petticoats
would drive men wild;
quaint days.
There was a
chance meeting with
Saul Bellow;
a prized book.
There are promptings
to write down
her memoirs;
she resists.
Once I posted this, the format looks like it is a poem. It isn’t. Just a few thoughts on a conversation with a woman who has had an extremely interesting life. “You need to write your memoirs down!” I keep imploring her. She shrugs it off.
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Saul Bellow. “The kid from Lachine came a long way, wrote a lot of books, had many affairs and ended up a bigshot intellectual.”
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